Shelter from the Storm
by The Silver Trumpet
Summary: "Her fingers combed through his hair again. "Do you trust me to protect you, Diaval?" This was the real question, wasn't it? Her wings were gone. She was changed. But her duties had not." Could be read as Maleval or as friendship. One-shot.


**A/N: I know I promised and failed to keep writing as much as I wanted. Marching season and homework have been conflicting too much for me to eat or sleep, let alone write, and I am a firm believer that if I don't have time to read, I don't have the time or the tools to write. Either way, this one-shot is all I have to show for the numerous ideas bounding about my head. Once the DVD comes out and marching season ends, I'm going to publish a few more one-shots and might try at a few multi-chapter works. Moreover, Moorsville Marching Angels is on permanent hiatus, unless something strange happens. **

Dark of night settled over the moors, and Maleficent took residence in the abandoned, decrepit castle near its depth. Thousands of years had passed since the old royal family fell, and the place was certainly in a state of disrepair. With a little touch of magic, she'd transfigured an old, rotting tree trunk into a bed—a bed, not a nest, for only winged creatures slept in nests. A reminder as sharp as the constant pain in her back that she was now nothing. It hurt to stand, to walk. It hurt to move. Hell, it hurt to exist. Her existence was one of pain with no relief.

She settled into the thick covers—blankets, where once there had been wings—and buried her face in the pillows. They did not carry the same earthen scent with which her feathers had always comforted her. Sleep eluded her for only a few moments, though, before exhaustion overtook, and she succumbed to its dark leering on her form.

Nightmares were frequent for the fairy, but this night they were interrupted before they even began. Thunder shook the forest. Sweat coated her and chilled her; she had never liked storms. Storms were meant to indicate harbingers of darkness. But Stefan had always come on clear nights. She tried to avoid such thoughts. Rolling over, she promptly ripped her pillowcase on her horns—"Blast!" she cursed—and tried to find rest again, but this time it was gone for good.

She rose and steadied herself on the footboard, unsure where her feet were taking her; traveling in the storm was not an option. But before her sleep-hazed mind had a chance to continue its perusing, there came a meek knock at the door—much too meek. "Mistress?" a tiny voice whimpered, much too small to be Diaval. She opened it nonetheless.

"Diaval." The raven-man, who had taken to sleeping on the stairs in front of the castle as sentry, stood before her in a shivering, soaked mound of baggy clothes. He drew his arms tightly around him. Lightning crackled through the sky, and he jumped, releasing a squeak of terror. She read the emotions on his sleeve clearly. Fear. "Come in." His fear was unnecessary. "You are sodden." A quick touch to his robe dried it. She peeled the top blanket off of her bed and shoved it into his hands. "Sleep in here tonight." She wouldn't be sleeping, anyway.

He nodded quickly and curled on the floor away from the window. Each flash of lightning ended with a pathetic squeak of terror; he was petrified by the storm. The fairy rolled over to peer down upon his form, and her eyes widened slightly at the tears that rolled down his cheeks. She said his name again, gently, firmly, "Diaval." He opened his eyes, wide with fear, clutching the blanket to his chest as though he feared she would take his only form of protection. "Come." She patted the bed beside her in an invitation.

Any other time, she imagined her servant would have shown hesitation against climbing into bed with her, but now? Now he leapt quite like a frog from his place on the ground. His arms looped around her waist, and he burrowed his face into her chest. His whole form quaked. She drew her arms about him slowly, hesitantly. His feathers tickled her chin. He flinched at every clap of distant thunder. Tears leaked from him and wet her shirt. She stated his name once more, "Diaval." He tilted his head back to look at her, a silent question written there in his eyes. She stroked his feathered hair. "What of this storm has caused you such great fear?"

His eyes flickered downward, away from hers. "Lightning makes fire, mistress," he mumbled.

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. As protector, it was her job to eliminate fire in the moorlands. They were usually small embers that alit a pixie's nest, and rebuilding was a simple job of magic and intellect. But Diaval's origins led back to the non-enchanted forests beside the moors, where there was no protector. Perhaps that was how he came to the magic land. Her fingers combed through his hair again. "Do you trust me to protect you, Diaval?" This was the real question, wasn't it? Her wings were gone. She was changed. But her duties had not changed. She still protected her homeland as fiercely as she had before, though the patrols took longer, and she neglected the hurts in the highest trees.

He blinked, his brow fuddled. "Of course mistress," he murmured. "Else I would not have come to you." He spoke the truth; there were places outside to take shelter, albeit not as good as the castle. He could have moved in with the nymphs or trolls, or even in the bollerwogs if he was desperate, but he instead came to her. "You act as if you are some hideous, detestable creature," he continued. A clap of thunder drove his limbs stiff, but her voice had dried his tears. "But few think of you in such a way. I do not." He settled his cheek in between her breasts and relished in the contact between them. Sleep began to slur his voice. "I think you're…absolutely…beautifuhhl…"

His snores took him before she could question him. She resisted the urge to shake him awake and demand just exactly what he meant by that. She sighed deeply. His smell made her tired, and she found herself drawn into the embrace of slumber once again.


End file.
